Mixed Signals
by cayt-lynne
Summary: It wasn't easy to help Sherlock fake his death. But the real struggle came only a few days later while he was staying in Molly's flat. Please, please, please post reviews. They are extremely helpful and I love to hear people's reactions to the story to know which direction it should be taking.
1. Chapter 1: Giving In

**Chapter 1: Giving In**

"What do you need?" Her heart beat faster and her fingers trembled, but she didn't give in to the fear that was spreading through her veins like ice. He had said he was going to die.

"You." At any other time in her life, this would have made Molly's heart soar, but now she felt her heart drop, landing somewhere in her stomach.

Dropping her bag to the floor and taking off her coat, she took a deep breath. "What did you have in mind?"

Sherlock smiled and Molly knew she was going to regret offering her help. Sherlock always asked too much.

…

It had been only a few hours since Molly had helped Sherlock fake his death, but now, staring at John Watson's devastated face, she couldn't help but wish she hadn't. Lying had never been one her strong suits, as Sherlock had pointed out. Ducking her head, she pushed her way into the morgue. When she saw John trying to follow her, she locked the door behind her, not looking directly at him. She couldn't bear to see how hurt he was anymore.

"Well?" Sherlock's voice came out of the shadows behind her. "How is he?"

"Not good," Molly muttered. "But then what did you expect?"

Sherlock was leaning against the wall of cold cubbies. His hair was tangled and his face pail. His hands were in the pockets of his trench coat and his scarf hung loosely around his neck. While he had been leaning casually before, Molly could not see his face. But at her report over John's wellbeing, he stood up straight, emerging from the shadows. His icy blue eyes flashed and his jaw tensed, but he reacted in no other visible way.

"He'll be fine." He paused, as if expecting a reply. "Well…thank you, Molly. For your help."

Molly paused. It wasn't often that Sherlock Holmes expressed any sort of gratitude, and she flushed in pleasure. She had helped Sherlock Holmes. All at once, though, she thought of John Watson's face and her mood plummeted.

"Don't thank me," she cried, shaking her head. Her next words were a whisper. "Not for this. Not when…"

Not when she was going to have to see John's face every day and know she had helped to bring about his misery. Not when she was going to lie to everyone she cared about. Not when she was forever going to be watching her words, making sure she didn't slip up.

Sherlock's face remained carefully blank. He knew what he was asking of her, he _had _to know. Did he not realize how much of a struggle this was going to be for her? How much guilt…? Of course he wouldn't. Sherlock Holmes had no concept of guilt or remorse. _A machine_, she thought to herself, surprised at the flash of anger she felt towards the oblivious man. She couldn't afford to become angry with him though, there was too much work left for them to do in order for this to work. It wasn't over yet.

"Molly," his voice, usually uncaring, seemed a bit unsure. She turned to look at him. "Can I…I need…May I stay at your place for a few days? Just until things have settled down a bit and I can leave undetected."

Molly remained quiet. She hadn't bet on having to be around Sherlock longer than she absolutely had to, and now he wanted to stay at her house? She opened her mouth to protest.

"Please, Molly," And Molly's words died in her throat. He was looking at her with wide eyes, his face suddenly very young looking. Damn it. Why did he _do_ that? "I…"

Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words was not something that anyone could see every day. Molly even suspected that it was just an act to get her to take pity on him. It was working. She sighed and grabbed her coat.

"Alright," she said, resignedly. "You have my address?"

He nodded, some of the tension leaving his face.

"I have to talk to John, Greg and Mycroft." At his confused look, she clarified." John, _Lestrade_, and Mycroft."

"_Mycroft_," Sherlock snorted. "I wouldn't bother with him, if I were you. I'm sure he already knows and cares very little, if at all."

Molly just shook her head and moved towards the door. Looking back briefly over her shoulder, she saw Sherlock with his head hanging and a faint sparkle on his prominent cheekbone. A tear? But she blinked and it was gone. She turned back to the doors, unlocked them and slipped through the small space she allowed herself, relocking the doors behind her. She then went out to confirm the death of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and apparent fraud.


	2. Chapter 2: Lying

**Chapter 2: Lying**

When she entered the room down the hall that had been set aside for John and Greg, she was surprised to see Mycroft leaning against the wall. She only gave herself a second to register her emotions before she was consumed by John's. His misery hung in the air like fog and shock rolled off him in waves. It hurt to look at him. His devastation was written in the lines of his face, the slump of his shoulders, and shaking legs. Her heart broke for him. Suddenly, a stab of anger went through her again. This time, she wasn't angry with Sherlock for the strain he was putting on her, but the way he had just completely dismantled John's life.

As suddenly as the anger appeared, it was gone and Molly was left feeling hollow and sad. It was only at that moment that she realized that the three men were staring at her. They had looked up when she entered the room, but she had been too caught up in her own thoughts to register their questioning looks. Taking a deep breath, Molly fought to calm her racing heart. At the notion of what she was about to do, her shoulders suddenly seemed much heavier.

"John," she took a step forward, only to be evaded. He stood up and stepped back, as if distance would make her words hurt less. "I…I'm so sorry."

Her voice broke then and she couldn't go on, couldn't say the words that were there, but she didn't need to. Looking at her face, John saw sorrow and regret. The only reason for her to look that upset was because Sherlock was gone. Molly watched John's breath catch and tears pool in his eyes. Greg looked like he wanted to comfort him but was too upset to do anything helpful. Mycroft simply straightened his suit and walked out of the room. Molly knew he would never allow anyone to see his weakness, how much he cared for his little brother. A few seconds later, Greg followed him out, leaving Molly alone with john.

He hadn't moved, frozen by grief. Or maybe he was just trying to keep himself held together and any movement would shake him apart, releasing the flood of emotion Molly could see in his eyes. After five minutes, Molly couldn't handle the sight of the man in front of her breaking. She strode forward and touched his shoulder. At her touch, he finally moved, blinking for the first time in several minutes. The small movement freed a single tear that had been clinging to his lashes desperately. When it dropped, so did John.

Molly sank down next to him where he was kneeling on the cold tile floor, her arms going around his shaking shoulders. For a moment, she thought he was going to push her away, but then his head found her shoulder and his arms went to her waist. He clung to her like she was the only anchor during a storm. His tears quickly soaked the ends of her hair, her lab coat and dampened the shirt underneath. She felt the hot sting of tears behind her own eyes and tried to stop them, tried to stay strong for John. At that exact moment though, she heard a whispered, broken sob of a word slip out of John.

"Why?"

That was always the question, wasn't it?

Molly opened her mouth to answer him with a small and unimpressive "I don't know", but all that came out was a sob of her own. Molly let her tears fall, and hung on to John even harder than before, so that they became support for each other. But while John was crying for Sherlock, she was crying for John and his poor, broken heart.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." She repeated the whispered words over and over again for hours until they had no meaning. And even then she kept saying them, not knowing if she could stop.


	3. Chapter 3: Fainting

**Chapter 3: Fainting**

After John had left the hospital, Molly sat by herself for an hour, trying to compose herself. She would have to go back to her flat soon and Sherlock would be there. She couldn't look like she had been crying. Though he would probably know anyways.

Returning to the morgue where she had left her coat and bag, Molly looked around. The room was so empty. She had performed countless autopsies in here, had helped Sherlock with so many cases, and even tried to ask him out. Strange as it was, this room was full of memories that she treasured, because Sherlock was present in almost all of them. But now, all she could see was Sherlock's carefully closed off face, John's wrecked emotions, Molly lying, over and over again. _Liar, liar_, a small, vicious voice in her head chanted.

"Shut up," she muttered. "It's for John's own good."

That sounded weak even to Molly. Surely Sherlock could have come up with some solution other than faking his own death? But when she stopped to think about it, Sherlock had always liked being on his own. While she knew he cared deeply for Dr. Watson, maybe this was his way of escaping him. Not much help Sherlock's interest for long.

Donning her coat, Molly killed the lights and locked the doors behind her on her way out. As usual, she was the last to leave. She didn't really mind, except that there was usually a man waiting for her outside who liked to harass her. This time, he was nowhere in sight. No one looked at her, no one spoke to her, as she made her way to her flat. It was only a ten minute walk. When she arrived, the windows were dark and the building was quiet. Sherlock must not have been here yet. He liked to disappear for a while, she knew. He would probably show up in the morning.

Unlocking the door, Molly felt wetness on her cheek. Tears? No, it had started raining. She hurried inside as the sprinkle, suddenly turned into a downpour. She was relieved to be home after such a stressful day. Her flat was dry and warm. She dropped her bag and shrugged out of her coat. Her sweater was next, so she was left in her pants and a tank top.

"I feel I should alert you to my presence before you remove any more clothing."

Whirling around, Molly screamed when she saw the tall silhouette standing in her bedroom doorway. Her heart pounded and her breath caught. Was she going to faint? Sherlock moved out of the shadows, looking amused which turned to slight concern when he took in the fact that she was swaying dangerously.

"Sit down," he ordered, pulling her over to her small sofa. Once there, she collapsed in a heap, hands pressed against her heart, willing it to keep going.

"Sh-Sherlock!" She gasped out. "You scared me!"

"I can see that," he hesitated. "I…apologize."

She waited a few more minutes, letting her breathing and heart rate return to normal. Sherlock sat down next to her, looking uncomfortable.

"Molly, where have you been?"


	4. Chapter 4: Blushing

**Chapter 4: Blushing**

Whatever small amount of calm Molly had regained vanished immediately. It was replaced by an anger that spread through her like a wildfire.

"I was with John," she kept her voice tight, attempting to control her emotions. It was Sherlock's turn to tense up.

"With…?"

"Yes, with John." She stood up from the sofa and stalked to her bedroom, trying to put space between them before she strangled him.

"Molly," his voice was a warning, but she didn't care what Sherlock Holmes wanted. She just wanted away from him. She had never thought she could get enough of him a few days ago, but now...

"Sherlock," she said in exasperation, spinning around. He was standing framed in her bedroom doorway. "He needed a friend. I just sat with him, alright?"

Sherlock stood there, brooding. With a sigh, Molly grabbed a change of clothes. She would just change in the bathroom then, if he wasn't planning on moving. Once in the bathroom, Molly stared at her reflection for a moment. A face with pale skin and brown eyes, framed by long brown hair, looked back at her. Not plain…but not beautiful. She was pretty. Why didn't Sherlock seem to notice? Proceeding to change into loose shorts and an old favorite t-shirt, Molly contemplated Sherlock Holmes' sexuality. Was he gay? That would explain why he seemed so utterly disinterested in Molly. If he wasn't gay, maybe he already had a girlfriend that he was hiding from everyone. Shaking her head at her own speculation, she headed back into the bedroom, glancing at the door. He was gone. She turned to her bed. And screamed.

"Molly," Sherlock's voice was muffled by the blankets. "Stop screaming. I assure you that I am not that intimidating."

"Sherlock! What are you-?"

"Sleeping, obviously. Your bed is large enough for both of us, I should think."

Molly gaped at him. She could just barely see the top of his head, his brown curls sticking up in every direction. Taking a deep breath, she padded over to the unoccupied side of the bed and pulled the covers back. It was then that she noticed the suit jacket hung up on the back of her chair and Sherlock's button down shirt folded neatly beneath it on the seat. His socks and shoes were on the floor a few feet away.

Swallowing painfully at the thought of Sherlock being shirtless in her bed, Molly slipped between the covers and resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. It would not do to go exploring what muscles he had hidden underneath all his layers. But Molly couldn't help but wonder.

"I can hear you thinking. Stop."

Molly blushed. "S-sorry. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper."


	5. Chapter 5: Wondering

**Chapter 5: Wondering**

In the morning, Molly woke up and found herself balanced on the very edge of the bed, as far away from Sherlock as she could get. It appeared that even in her unconscious state she had recognized the importance of keeping her distance. Rolling over so that she wouldn't fall off the bed, she suddenly found herself face to face with Sherlock, whose eyes were open and looking at her.

"Oh! Sherlock, I-"

"Shh," he interrupted. He stared into her eyes for a few more minutes. Molly quickly grew flustered.

"What are you doing?"

His intense gaze softened a bit, and he flopped over onto his back. "It was an experiment."

"On?"

"Myself." He glanced over at her. "I was observing my emotional and physical reaction to waking up with a member of the opposite sex in the bed."

"And?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know."

…

The next few days were full of Sherlock Holmes and his special kind of madness mixed with brilliance. It made Molly's head spin. How did John manage to live with the man for years? When she thought of John, a pang went through her heart. He had locked himself in 221B Baker Street after the funeral and wouldn't see anyone. When she had spoken to Mrs. Hudson, the old woman had sounded increasingly worried. John wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, wouldn't even speak. Molly's guilt was weighing down on her like thousands of pounds of fake dead Sherlocks.

She was distracted at home though. Sherlock had confined himself to her flat and was quickly growing bored. She had come home one day to find him upside down on the couch smoking and burning one of her newspapers. After that, she had started bringing him home supplies for little experiments. She had quickly given him rules when she found eyeballs in the refrigerator. Body parts in the kitchen was where she drew the line.

"Where else am I supposed to keep them?"

"No, Sherlock." She had put her foot down and did not intend to give in.

The next surprise came when he started leaving his clothes in her bedroom. He usually kept himself so wrapped up, Molly couldn't get used to the sight of him in just his trousers and button-down. She promised to go buy him a pair of pajamas and a dressing gown.

The pajamas led to sleeping, which was another cause for bewilderment. He was still sleeping in her bed. And every morning, Molly would roll over to find his face inches from hers. She always held perfectly still until he was finished with his little experiment and got up to make coffee. She no longer got flustered, but she still wondered about the results of his self-analysis.

Yes, between experiments, pajamas, coffee and sharing a bed, Sherlock had become a fixture in Molly's life. She was used to his presence and even enjoyed it sometimes, when he wasn't driving her absolutely mad. She was coming to appreciate the impressive patience of John Watson.

She was getting used to the little ways Sherlock showed affection too. He left her coffee on the table, or made her toast every morning. He asked her about her day. He gave observations on the cause of death of each of the corpses she was left in charge of. He cut back on calling her an idiot. He was almost civil, as long as she didn't mention John. If she did, he was sullen and grumpy, making a point of putting severed fingers in the fridge. So she didn't mention John.

…

Thursday night, Molly decided to take off work on Friday. She needed a day to herself. So she hunted down her boss and asked for the day. He gladly gave it to her. That evening, she arrived after work to find Sherlock sitting on the couch, staring off into space. _Mind Palace_. She could recognize the signs by then. She went about making dinner, knowing not to disturb him. Half an hour later, Sherlock slowly returned to himself to see Molly setting two bowls of soup on the table. He got to his feet stiffly and walked over to her, stretching his long limbs. She ignored him until they were both seated.

"How was your day, Sherlock?"

He grunted in reply and started to spoon soup into his mouth.

"Alright, then…I took off work tomorrow so I'll be here all day."

Silence.

At that point, Molly gave up. She finished her soup and retreated to her bedroom. She changed into her usual pajamas, crawled into bed, and fell asleep before Sherlock had gotten up from the table.

Her dreams that night were strange and confused, full of glimpses of a crying John, falling corpses, Sherlock being struck by lightning. She couldn't comprehend anything that was going on around her. She called to John, but he didn't seem to hear her and by the time she had reached the place where he had been, he was sucked away in a tornado of case files. Then the clouds above her opened up and bodies fell, hitting the ground with solid thuds. Spinning around, she ran to avoid being hit by a body. Sherlock appeared in front of her, reaching for her hand. His face was young and vulnerable, his eyes wide with terror. She stretched out a hand to grab him. As soon as her fingertips touched his, though, a bolt of lightning lit up his tall frame and a horrifying scream was torn from his throat. Molly woke up, gasping for air.

She couldn't figure out where she was for a second. Her breath was coming in wheezes and choked sounds. Tears coursed down the sides of her face, seeping into her hair. Her blankets were tangled around her somehow, making it difficult for her to breathe. She pulled at the bindings and let out a faint cry.

Suddenly, two cool hands captured her wrists and forced them to her sides. Her eyes focused on her captor. His ice blue eyes were gazing intently into hers, searching. The blankets were tugged loose, and pulled away from her so that she could get air onto her flushed skin.

"Molly, Molly," Sherlock's low voice came from above her. "Molly, stop fighting me."

It was then that Molly realized that Sherlock's body was pressed against the length of her. His legs pinned hers, stopping her attempts to kick him. His hands were already pinning her arms, preventing her from hitting him. Molly began to recognize the rest of her surroundings. Her darkened bedroom, rain tapping on the window panes, and a small bit of light creeping under the door.

"Shh, shh," he whispered gently. "It's alright."

Molly stopped struggling and went limp. Her sobs were muffled by Sherlock's shoulder as he rolled to the side, staying close to her. Then his forehead pressed against hers, and she felt his breath on her lips. His longs fingers stroked her face, wiping away the tears that she couldn't seem to stop.

"Sh-Sherlock?" she choked out.

"I'm here."

"And you're…alright?"

"Yes."

She felt herself relax. Her breathing came easier and her head cleared. She expected Sherlock to roll away once she calmed down, but to her surprise, his arms crept tentatively around her and held her close. She lay in his arms, afraid to move or say anything lest Sherlock pull away. He was the first to speak again.

"Nightmares." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

He hesitated. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." She shuddered at the thought of revisiting the horrifying dreamscape, even just in memory.

Sherlock nodded and didn't press her, which Molly appreciated. He didn't say anymore and they stayed close together for the rest of the night, watching the morning light creep in.

_**Author's Note: Wow, long chapter. But I got going and didn't really want to stop. Thanks so much for reading! Don't forget to review…**_


	6. Chapter 6: Crying

**Chapter 6: Crying**

After the nightmare episode the night before, Molly could barely look at Sherlock. He must have reached the conclusion that Molly herself had, but desperately wished wasn't true: Molly Hooper was weak. When Sherlock got out of bed, Molly stayed, feeling the coolness of the air touching her skin where second ago Sherlock's arms had been keeping her warm. She couldn't possibly stay in the flat all day, except she had taken off work. What could she possibly do to get away from Sherlock? Then Molly had a thought.

She flew through her shower and getting dressed. She spent a little more time on her hair, just to make sure it actually was presentable. Then she headed out to the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for her with a cup of coffee. She took it from him and drank it as quickly as she could without burning her throat. Sherlock watched her with a bit of confusion.

"In a hurry? I thought you were staying in today."

She shook her head. "Going out."

Sherlock looked almost disappointed for a fraction of a second before wiping his face of any emotion. He stood and made his way to the couch, where he slumped down and affected an air of haughty relaxation. He whipped a pillow out from underneath his lanky frame to cover his face with. Molly was putting on her coat when his voice reached her from under a pillow.

"Don't be gone too long."

She looked back at him, but his posture hadn't changed, except that he had somehow thrown the pillow across the sitting room and then flung an arm across his face so she couldn't see his expression.

"Off you go."

Molly fled.

…

She arrived at Baker Street within an hour, having stopped to pick up some pastries for Mrs. Hudson. When she knocked on the front door, Mrs. Hudson appeared, looking disheveled and lost. When she saw that it was Molly at the door, the relief was plain on her face.

"Oh, Molly, thank goodness you're here. John has complete fallen apart. He won't listen to me. Maybe you can get through to him?"

"I…can try." Molly wasn't particularly looking forward to seeing John, considering the secret she was helping to keep.

Going up the stairs, she looked back to see Mrs. Hudson disappearing into her own flat. No help from there apparently. Pushing open the door to 221B, Molly tentatively leaned her head into the room. There were no signs of John. Or anything living for that matter. The flat was clean, exactly as it had been before Sherlock faked his death. Where was John?

"John?" she called. She didn't want to startle him. With his military reflexes, he might shoot her. She got no reply but heard a rustle from the bedroom down the hall. Her steps silent and careful, Molly crept close enough to peek through the small crack between the door and the frame.

She realized that this must be Sherlock's bedroom. It was mostly bare, with only a poster of the periodic table on the wall, but it was full of glass. Glass beakers, test tubes, pipettes, and flasks covered every surface except for the bed. The bed was large enough for two, but obviously not well used. The room was dark and full of shadows, and shrouded in death and despair.

In the middle of the bed, John sat, small and broken. His head was down, his eyes fixed on his hands which were turning a dark object over and over in indecision. His hands did not shake, but his shoulders did. Molly crept farther into the room. Upon closer inspection, the dark shape revealed itself to be a gun.

"John," she whispered in shock. She didn't get an answer but she didn't think that she would.

She climbed up onto the bed next to him. On her hands and knees, she crawled over to him. She didn't think touching him would be a good idea.

"John," she said again, more insistent. "He…Sherlock wouldn't want this."

At that, his head rose, just enough to look at her. The look in his eyes made Molly's breath catch and tears form in her eyes. His eyes, once friendly and kind, were like mirrors, flat and empty. Every detail of his face was a shadow of the grief that was roiling beneath the surface of his frail body, barely contained by soft skin and battle-born habits of pushing emotions aside, hiding what he was really feeling. When he looked at Molly, she was drawn in and consumed by his emotions. He said something, but his voice was so quiet and broken that she couldn't hear anything. She leaned closer.

"Sherlock…is gone." The pain was so evident in his voice, Molly marveled at how he had held himself together even this long.

Molly drew in her breath, but before she could say anything, John was raising the gun to his own head.

"NO!" The word was wrenched from her without her realizing it and her hand reached out without her consent.

She had been right about John's reflexes. As soon as she touched him, the gun was spun around, somehow pointed at her heart. Her breathing became shallow and quick. Her fear was making her brave though. She didn't remove her hand from his arm. She slid her hand down his arm to his wrist and then to his hand that was holding the gun.

"John," she whispered. She didn't try to move the gun away, she just held on to him. The shaking of his shoulders was getting more and more violent. All at once, the gun dropped to the bed and John gave in to his emotions.

As he fell apart, his arms reached out for Molly and she went to him, without thinking, without hesitation. His left arm wound carefully around her waist and his right arm went up around her shoulders, making it impossible for there to be any room between them. He clung to her and let his tears fall. The sobs that came out of him were animalistic and heart wrenching. Molly simply held him and let him cry, occasionally stroking his short hair, rubbing his back and whispering little nothing meant to give comfort, but that really only made Molly feel useful.

Molly stayed with John for the next five hours, as he exhausted himself. When she had convinced him to eat a bit of toast, he grew too tired to stand and swayed dangerously in the middle of the kitchen. Supporting his weight carefully, she led him back to Sherlock's bedroom. When she let go of him, he fell down onto the bed, grabbing Molly's waist as he went so that she was pulled down on top of him.

"John?"

"Stay here. Don't…don't want to sleep alone. Nightmares." His voice was muffled by a huge yawn, and Molly couldn't help but smile, until she remembered her own nightmares. She understood not wanting to sleep alone.

"Just for a little while then, alright?" He grunted in reply. "But I'm not sleeping on top of you. Let go."

He didn't, he just rolled to his side so that she was next to him, close enough to hear his soft breathing. Molly couldn't help but think of how she had slept just like this, but with Sherlock. Her boys, so different in character, but the same underneath it all, wanted her to be there. The thought made her smile as she watched John's face relax. Her smile melted into a frown when she looked closer, seeing that even in sleep he looked in pain and sorrowful. He also looked so young, too young to be able to stand the emotional turmoil that had been thrust upon him.

Molly sent up a prayer of thanks that she had arrived in time to stop him from ending up on her morgue table. She thought back to the way his eyes had looked when he first looked at her. A pang went through her. John was so expressive; it wasn't hard to see he was struggling. She didn't know how she would be able to leave him alone for fear of him doing something drastic. Maybe she would take the gun with her. While she contemplated all these things, one image stayed with her. John Watson's haunted eyes, staring at her as though from the bottom of a grave. Molly felt a shiver run down her back and held on to the sleeping form of the doctor even tighter. She had realized something about John that she was never meant to know: He was a broken man.

…

When Molly woke up, the daylight that had been streaming in through the window had disappeared. She was curled up against John, with his chest pressed to her back and his arms holding her close. Craning her neck, she strained to see the numbers on the clock. Seven o'clock. Closing her eyes, she was about to let herself drift back to sleep when she realized that she had been gone for almost twelve hours. She had told Sherlock that she would only be a few hours! Her eyes flew open. Carefully, she eased herself out from underneath John's arm and groped for her back where it had fallen off of the bed. She dug her phone out of it and checked for messages. Ten missed calls and forty-two text messages. She decided to read the texts first.

_Where are you? I'm out of eyeballs, bring some home with you. SH_

_Molly, where are you? SH_

_Are you alright? SH_

_Hello? SH_

_If I don't hear from you in the next three hours, I will assume you have been kidnapped. SH_

_Are you hurt? SH_

The texts continued on in an increasingly panicked fashion until the last one, which had been sent only ten minutes ago:

_Molly Hooper, if you are alright, answer me. I'm preparing to start searching for you. SH_

Molly felt her face pale. She quickly sent Sherlock a message. He couldn't leave the flat or everything would be ruined.

_I'm fine. Stay in the flat._

She saw that he texted her back within seconds but she ignored it. She needed to get home anyway, he would see her soon. She leaned over John's still sleeping form, and placed a hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him.

"John," she whispered. "John."

"Mmf?"

She smiled. "I have to go."

At that he started to wake up a bit more.

"What? Why?"

"I have to get home. I'll come back though, tomorrow."

"Oh." His eyes drifted back shut. "Okay. See you then."

Molly pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his short, blond hair and then climbed off the bed. She was almost to the door when she had a thought and tiptoed back to the bedroom. She slipped the gun into her coat pocket and left as quietly as possible.


	7. Chapter 7: Bleeding

**Chapter 7: Bleeding**

Once she was out on the street, Molly found the street bustling with people out enjoying the cool evening air. Having slept all day, Molly decided to walk home to stretch her stiff limbs. It wasn't that far of a walk. She set out, her bag bumping against her hip and her hair softly brushing against her neck in the breeze. She could distinctly feel the solid shape of the cold metal gun in her pocket, but tried not to look nervous. She took well lit roads until she reached her own street. Her street was quiet, almost empty, and dark. She was only two blocks from her flat when a hand shot out of the alley on her left and pulled her into the darkness.

"Wha-?" A hand covered her mouth and fear slithered up her spine.

"Hello, sweetheart." The deep voice was accompanied by a chorus of chuckles. She wrenched her head away from his hand.

"Let me _go._"

"Now don't be like that." She felt his heavy hands sliding up and down her arms. After a moment, another pair of hands replaced his to hold her in place.

She couldn't think, couldn't even try to think because of the shock and fear crashing through her mind. The first man's hands crept towards the hem of her shirt. She shuddered in disgust as his hands came in contact with her bare skin.

"No…" She sounded weak, even to her own ears.

"C'mon, baby. Just relax." More hands were on her, in her hair, on her hips, her legs. She was finally able to move when she felt a hand sliding its way down the front of her pants. She struggled and kicked but it was too late. The men laughed and paid no attention to her attempts to get free.

Molly felt tears burn down her cheeks. How could this be happening to her? _No, no, no_. She was so close to home, so close to Sherlock, it wasn't fair. _Please…_

Suddenly the grip on her right arm was loose, forgotten by her captors. She plunged her hand into her pocket, withdrawing the gun and praying she wouldn't drop it. Barely pausing to aim, she fired. There was a shout of pain and most of the hands that had been on her disappeared. Heavy footfalls told her that they were running, frightened of the gun. One man, the first one, was standing in front of her, a hand pressed to his bicep, where she had apparently shot him. He was staring at her in shock, which quickly gave way to hate.

Taking a deep breath, Molly tried to calm her shaking hands.

"Leave," her voice was quiet, yet firm. She lost some of her confidence when she saw his smile, ugly and fierce. Her only warning was the almost imperceptible tensing of his muscles before he launched himself at her. Molly fired, but her aim was wide because of her panic. His fists planted in her stomach and Molly felt the air rush out of her lungs. The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back and the gun was in her attacker's hand.

"Eye for an eye," he hissed at her. She heard another shot and felt a searing pain in her side. Then he was gone, taking the gun with him and leaving her to bleed to death in the alleyway.

…

Molly lay on the ground, struggling to breathe. The pain that was stabbing through her was immobilizing her, as well as disorienting her. She could feel a steam of warm liquid soaking her shirt. She slowly raised a hand to her side and then brought it up to her eyes. Blood. It was at that point that her medical training kicked in. Carefully, she put her hand over the wound and pressed. A cry of pain escaped her, but she swallowed down the sob that she could feel building in her throat. She needed help. The struggle to get to her feet was painful, so much so that Molly almost passed out. But she couldn't stay here; she'd bleed to death for sure. Shuffling and leaning against the wall for support, Molly slowly inched her way home. She kept herself conscious by sheer force of will.

Finally, she reached her flat. She fumbled the key into the lock and tried to turn it. Her hands were wet with blood though and her hand was growing weak. The struggle to get inside lasted for only a few minutes before she heard the lock click open. Molly didn't make it farther than the kitchen before she collapsed on the cool tile floor. She pressed her cheek against the tile and fought to speak.

"Sherlock." It came out as a whisper. She tried again. "Sherlock."

Her vision was becoming hazy and her head felt light. She was going to pass out. She might not wake up again. She gathered what strength she had and let out a shout.

"SHERLOCK!" She had no energy left and hoped that her shriek would be enough to bring him.

"Molly, where have you been?" His voice was coming from the living room. "You said you were only going to be gone a few…hours…Molly! What's wrong?"

His hands were gentle, rolling her over onto her back. Molly fought to focus on his face. She was so tired.

"Molly, stay awake," he said, sounding panicked. "Talk to me, Molly."

His hands and eyes found the source of the blood at that moment, and he said a word Molly hadn't ever imagined him saying. She felt a ghost of a smile flutter across her face.

"What happened?" His voice was hard, tightly under control, as he turned and grabbed a knife from the block on the counter. "Molly, stay with me."

She was starting to slip into unconsciousness when his voice reached her again. "This is going to hurt…"

She screamed in pain as he dug the edge on the knife under her skin. The fog that had been surrounding her brain melted to be replaced by blinding pain. She let herself sob as Sherlock poked around with the sharp knife and long, agile fingers.

"Got it." The knife disappeared, and Molly could breathe again. She had known getting the bullet out would be necessary, but she hadn't imagined how painful it would really be. "I'm sorry, Molly."

He proceeded to wrap her up with bandages and then check for other injuries. Finding none, he warned her that he was going to pick her up. Molly found herself nodding weakly. Sherlock's arms slipped underneath her, picking her up and cradling her. Molly felt him carry her to her bedroom, settling her on her bed. Once there, Molly started giving in to the unconsciousness that was creeping up on her. When she sensed Sherlock begin to back away, she grabbed for his sleeve.

"Don't…leave…" She didn't want to be alone. His hand was on her hair, brushing it away from her face.

"I won't."

But she couldn't hear him anymore.

…

Being unconscious was a curious feeling. She had the sense that she was floating, while still fixed firmly in her body. She had vague impressions of what was happening around her, but she started confusing dreams and reality in a matter of hours. She had the sense that people came to visit her, but she knew that wasn't possible because she was hiding Sherlock in her flat. At one point, a doctor from St. Bart's showed up with a medical kit and painkillers. He seemed at a loss as to why he couldn't find a bullet, but stitched her up and administered the medication. After that, her confusion was drug induced and somehow more scattered. Mrs. Hudson showed up, a basket of muffins on her arm and tears in her eyes. She patted and fluttered over Molly like a mother hen checking one of her chicks. Greg was next to see her, wanting to know who had attacked her. Molly couldn't have given him a description even without the mental fog she was constantly fighting against. Eventually, Greg left to yell at Donovan and Anderson some more. That was all he had been doing the past week or so.

Last to visit her was John. His face, so expressive and vulnerable, crumpled at the sight of her, confined to her bed, wrapped in gauze. He stumbled into the room and dropped to his knees by her bedside. The tears that she had seen a hint of were let free and coursed down his face. His hands took up fistfuls of blankets and a small, tortured sound came out of his throat.

"This…is my…fault," he whispered. "All…my…"

At that point, his face disappeared into the blankets as he sobbed. Molly reached out a hand to him, ignoring the pain in her side. Her fingers found the soft hair at the back of his head. She rubbed his head reassuringly.

"This isn't your fault, John. How could it be?"

"That was my gun…that you took from me." His voice was choked and broken and Molly had a hard time understanding him.

"John," she protested.

"Don't try to argue with me, Molly. You could be dead right now and it would be my fault."

He stayed there for an hour longer, crying. Molly did her best to make him feel better, but she was getting more and more tired by the minute. At last, he stood to go, looking down at her with a face full of pain and relief.

"Goodnight, Molly." Quickly, he leaned over her. His lips brushed hers, once, gently. When she didn't protest, his next kiss was deeper, still sweet and gentle, but with enough emotion and passion to leave Molly gasping. He gave her a small smile before turning and making his way out of the flat. Molly didn't watch him go. She was already being pulled into another round of confused dreams.

…

When she woke up a few hours later, she raised a hand to her lips. John Watson had kissed her. She couldn't remember ever having been kissed like that before. Like she was only woman in the world, like she was a treasure, like John was drowning and she was fresh air. She smiled and let herself drift back into oblivion.


	8. Chapter 8: Fighting

**Chapter 8: Fighting**

The light that was coming in her window was dirty, faint, and yellow when Molly woke up. It was nighttime, late too, if Molly's instincts were right. But then, she had been under large amounts of painkillers for the last few days. She kept her eyes closed, not wanting to face reality. Reality was full of rapists in alleys, stolen guns, a suicidal friend, and Sherlock Holmes hiding in her flat. She didn't think she could handle any of that until morning.

Finally, she let her eyes open, just enough to see what was around her. Through the small slit in the darkness she was clinging to, she could suddenly see a pair of light blue eyes, only inches away from hers. Her eyes flew open in shock. Sherlock was in her bed, as usual, but so much closer than Molly had ever thought he would willingly be. His face was focused, his eyes intent on hers, no doubt deducing her medical state at the moment. The expression on his face care carefully blank, but there was tightness to his eyes that hinted at a kind of buried protectiveness and concern. Molly gasped at his proximity, but he didn't even flinch.

"Sherlock!" Her voice was hoarse from disuse. Suddenly there was a hand over her mouth, silencing her. Sherlock's eyes flitted towards the closed bedroom door and looked back at her to say something, but he stopped abruptly when he saw the panic in her eyes.

she knew, of course she knew, that Sherlock wasn't attacking her. But the feeling of his hand, so readily silencing her, brought back a barrage of images and a wave of helplessness. Her mind could only register one thought: _Threat, threat, this man is a threat._ But Molly didn't want to be afraid for the rest of her life, so she resisted the urge to flinch away from the man who was now looking at her with concern and guilt as he whipped his hand away from her face. He warned her with his eyes as he leaned forward to whisper in her ear, being sure not to touch her in any way.

"Lestrade is out in the sitting room," he breathed out. "Don't make any noise."

Molly nodded and then reached out tentatively and took Sherlock's hand. He glanced down at their entwined fingers, surprised.

"I'm sorry I frightened you," he whispered. "I didn't think about how this all might have…affected you."

Molly nodded again and this time she leaned over to Sherlock.

"How are you here?"

"I've been living here for a week, Molly. Don't you remember?" She shot him a dirty look at that.

"Yes, I remember." Her words were more a hiss than anything else. "I mean that if Greg is here, how are you here, Amateur Detective Who Leaped to His Death?"

His face showed understanding. "Oh, I was hiding in your closet all day. I didn't want you to be afraid."

Molly pulled away a bit so that she could see his face a bit better. That was sweet, coming from Sherlock. But then the memory of the slight pressure of John Watson's lips against hers flooded her memory and she couldn't help but feel more than a little uncomfortable at the thought of Sherlock watching. He must have been able to tell what she was thinking, because his face grew completely closed off.

"Sherlock-"

"What did he mean, that was his gun that you took from him?" Sherlock clearly wasn't happy. "When did you get his gun?"

"I…" Molly hesitated, but Sherlock was bound to find out either way. She took a deep breath. "I was there, at Baker Street earlier today…wait, how long have I been here?"

"Only a day. Why did you go there?" Hs voce was cold, like it was when he was working on a case that wasn't particularly interesting.

"I just went to check on him." There was a pleading, young tone to her voice suddenly that Molly decided she hated. "Sherlock, don't-"

His face had grown stormy. "You left here at nine in the morning yesterday. You didn't arrive back until nighttime." Molly tried to interrupt, but Sherlock plowed ahead. "What were you doing there, Molly?"

"He was going to…oh, Sherlock…he had his gun and he was going to kill himself. I got there just in time." Sherlock's face was frozen, a mask of shock. "So I took the gun when I left so he couldn't try anything."

Sherlock was frozen for a solid ten minutes. Molly watched him apprehensively. Finally, he came back to life, enough to whisper through clenched teeth.

"You were there for hours. Molly. What else?"

"I..slept there. He said he was having nightmares and didn't want to be alone."

"Slept? Just slept?"

Molly cheeks flushed at what Sherlock was implying. She struggled to remain clam.

"Yes, Sherlock, _just slept_, because I know what it's like to have nightmares about Sherlock Holmes jumping to his death, or dying in some other gruesome way, and John needs a friends right now, just like I do!"

There was a noise from outside the door, making Sherlock and Molly freeze. They had forgotten that they weren't alone. They waited a few more minutes before continuing their argument in hissing vices. Sherlock's eyes were like ice, and Molly was starting to feel some of the pain in her side returning.

"And when he came here today and kissed you, that was the first time?"

"Sherlock, I don't understand how any of this is your business." Molly knew her cheeks were getting more and more pink by the minute, but she couldn't stop herself from getting frustrated by Sherlock's composure.

"Of course it's my business." His voice sounded really angry now, and Molly was reminded of all the rumors that had flown around Scotland Yard and St. Bart's about the detective and his companion and what must have been going on behind the closed doors of Baker Street. Molly had personally never believed them, still holding out hope that one day Sherlock would see her for who she really was and finally appreciate her…and maybe love her. But here was the confirmation. Sherlock was so obviously jealous that Molly wondered how she hadn't seen it before.

"I guess I understand how John is your business, but leave me out of it."

"John? What are you talking about?"

Molly was thoroughly confused at this point, not to mention in intense pain from her side. She made a mental note: _Getting shot hurts a lot. Don't do that again_. Her face crumpled in pain and suddenly Sherlock's hands were on her face, gentle and concerned. His face swam before her as her focus came and went.

"Molly? Molly, look at me." But Molly couldn't, her vision faded into black and the last thing she heard was a quiet whisper. "I'm so sorry."

**Author's Note:**

**Sorry it's so short! This is just a little something to tide you over. The good stuff is coming next, so make sure to check back…**


	9. Chapter 9: Revealing

**Chapter 9: Revealing**

Molly's dreams were torturous, repeating on loop the nightmares of Sherlock and John, dying and crying. She struggled to wake up, but she was caught fast in the snare of sleep, held under by the medications she was sure had been administered to her. The nightmares were becoming so distressing though, that Molly no longer cared about anything other than waking up. Vaguely, distantly, she could feel herself thrashing on her bed and getting tangled in her blankets. She let out a small cry as she was forced to watch a burning Sherlock. Sherlock, with his mouth open and screaming. Sherlock, with trusting eyes that were suddenly wide with horror and pain. Sherlock, burning burning burning. Molly could only watch. She let out a scream of anger, hurt, and fear.

In the next second, she felt herself be forced awake by someone holding her in their arms and pulling her up into a sitting position. They were shouting at her, trying to be heard above her screaming, trying to wake her up.

"Molly, Molly, listen to me! It isn't real! Look! Open your eyes! Molly!" At that, the owner of the voice shook her, gently but firmly. Her eyes flew wide.

Again, she couldn't process what she was seeing. She was in her bed, trapped by the sheets that were acting like a straightjacket on her. Next to her on the bed was Sherlock. He was holding her close, focused completely on her. His face was white, his jaw was clenched, and his eyes were just as wide as hers. There was a crease between his eyebrows and Molly realized that he look scared. She had never seen Sherlock look scared before. This revelation broke the dam that was holding Molly together. She slumped against him, sobbing, no longer caring if he thought she was weak.

"Shh, shh," his vice came from above her, no longer yelling, but not whispering either. They must be alone in the flat.

"Sherlock…Sherlock…I'm so sorry…" The sobs that were erupting out of her were making it hard to speak, but she knew that Sherlock understood. "I…I…"

"It's alright, Molly. I'm here. No one can hurt you now." _Oh_. He thought she was having nightmares about her attacker. She shook her head at him.

"It wasn't that. It was…you were there and it was dark. I tried to get to you, but the lightning… You….burned and there was nothing I could do…nothing…" She trailed off, aware that Sherlock was looking at her with shock and horror.

"You were having a nightmare about me?"

"About you dying."

He didn't reply, just held her even tighter. Molly hesitated for a moment, then lifted her arms and slipped them around his waist. It felt good to feel him there, safe and with her. She felt herself relax a little more.

Suddenly, she remembered the argument that they had been having before she had fallen unconscious again. She buried her face in his shirt so he wouldn't see her face.

"Are you still mad at me?"

"How could I be?"

They were both silent for a moment before she felt Sherlock inhale in preparation to speak. She braced herself.

"You thought…I was mad at you? Molly, I was upset, sure, but not really mad. I guess…" He trailed off as if seeing for the first time what she had been thinking. "You thought I was mad because John kissed you. Because you thought he was my John."

Molly was starting to get confused. "Well, of course, what other reason is there for you to get so upset?"

"John and I were never a couple."

"You weren't?"

"No."

"Then why…?" Molly was already having trouble thinking properly, this wasn't helping.

"I was jealous that he kissed _you_." Well that cleared that up. Maybe Sherlock had loved John all along but never told John. And he wasn't happy that John seemed to be getting close to Molly in Sherlock's absence. Molly was more than a little uncomfortable.

"Sherlock…it's none of my business what goes on between you two. I didn't ask him to kiss me." She would much rather not be having this conversation. At least until she was healed.

Sherlock let out a groan of frustration and let go of her. The sudden release surprised Molly and she promptly flopped back down on her pillows. Sherlock was up and walking around, pacing, and muttering to himself.

"Sherlock?"

He stopped pacing and stood over her, his face unreadable. He stared down at her, thinking. Molly was about to speak when he opened his mouth and said the words that would forever change Molly's life.

"I am not jealous of you for kissing John. I am jealous of John for kissing you, Molly Hooper." Suddenly he was leaning over her, his hands cupping her face and a look of such caring on his face that Molly suddenly found that she couldn't breathe. "It isn't easy for me, you know, to reveal my heart to anyone. But I love you. I love you, Molly Hooper."

**Author's Note:**

**Ok, I was asked of to clear up the pairings for this story, and so I shall: This is intentionally Sherlolly. I've got the John stuff mixed in to create some more romantic tension.**

**Also, sorry my update was so late. I graduate tomorrow and I've been very busy.**

**Don't forget to review!**


	10. Chapter 10: Disbelieving

**Chapter 10: Disbelieving**

Molly was frozen. She must have heard incorrectly. No other alternative presented itself to her; he couldn't mean that, could he? She stared at his face, trying to figure out what he was thinking. His face was open, seemingly vulnerable, earnest, sincere, caring, and every other expression that Molly had always dreamed of seeing in his face. As if he had somehow plucked her fantasies from her mind. A cold, writhing knot of distrust and suspicion swam in her stomach. Molly couldn't understand.

"You…you love…?"

"You, yes, I love you." His voice sounded sincere, too. No ring of falsehood, but then Sherlock had always been able to get away with lying to her. She was weak when it came to Sherlock. It was at that point that she realized what he was doing.

"Oh, Sherlock. You think I'm that much of an idiot?" She felt a small amount of satisfaction at the shock that flitted across his face, quickly followed by a crinkling of his forehead and the opening of his mouth that indicated he was about to try to convince her of his "love". It was then that Molly felt the first stirrings of anger. "You, Sherlock Holmes, give in to emotion? How many times have you been incomprehensible in the face of sentiment?"

She could see him struggling to come up with a response, but she was quickly gaining intensity in her anger.

"How many times of you insulted me, used me, lied to me? Been cruel to me?" She could feel tears in her eyes and became even angrier than before at her own weakness. "All because you knew you could! You knew how I cared for you, and you used that against me. _And I let you!_ Because I hoped you would someday feel something, anything, in some small similarity of fondness, or at least appreciation. But this, Sherlock, this…is cruel. Even for you."

The tears rolled down her face, blinding her. Sherlock was next to her in an instant, long fingers whipping away her tears and making small comforting noises. Molly hated it instantly. She didn't want to be comforted. She turned her head out of his reach.

"Molly, I don't…I mean I'm not…I am completely serious. I love you." Molly closed her eyes. She could feel her selfpreservation instincts kicking in.

"Stop." Her voice was weak and broken. Sherlock was quiet for a moment.

"You really think me so incapable of emotion?" She could hear the hurt in his voice but forced herself not to look at him. It was getting harder not to give in though. Damn the strength of her feelings for him.

She pulled the blanket up over her shoulders and buried her face in it, as if it were a shield that could protect her from Sherlock's hurt eyes. As if it could hold her breaking heart together.

"Molly-"

"Get out. Just…Please leave me alone."

Molly heard him sigh. His hand reached out and lightly touched her cheek. Molly tried not to lean into his touch. Then he was gone, slipping out of her room and quietly closing the door behind him. Molly curled into a ball, once again ignoring the pain in her side from the bullet wound. She cried, feeling all the heartbreak that she had always known was inevitable.

**Author's Note:**

**Didn't see that coming did you? Mwahahahahaha.**

**Sorry for the short chapter! But I just love dramatic chapter endings, if you didn't already know. Please review! Oh, and let me know if any of you have any requests for fan art for the story or even your own drawings.**


	11. Chapter 11: Melting

**Chapter 11: Melting**

Three days later, Molly was able to leave the confines of her bedroom. The doctor who had been making house calls told her she still wasn't cleared for work, but she could move around her flat, slowly and carefully, if she wanted to. This came as a relief to Molly, who could now only see her bedroom at the site of Sherlock's biggest crime against her. She was fairly certain she would have to move. She spent most of her time sleeping. If she wasn't sleeping, she was trying to block out her emotions. Having a broken heart was worse than getting shot. The amount of focus that it took to block out everything meant that she mostly spent time like this staring off into space. It only became a problem when her visitors started noticing it.

They all seemed concerned, as if they knew that something had happened. For all intents and purposes, Molly was shutting down. None of her visitors could get her to speak except for one. John Hamish Watson was all that was keeping Molly from completely losing her mind. He sat next to her on the sofa and forced a steady stream of tea and biscuits into her, talking the whole time and trying to get her to engage in conversation. So far he hadn't had any luck, but he seemed to have a different tactic every day.

"Molly. Drink." The tea that was shoved into her hand was a bland milky brown color. She took a sip just to make John feel happy. That was the only reason she did anything anymore, was to make John happy. She understood now why he had seemed so devastated at Sherlock's fake death. Sherlock Holmes was a master of heartbreaking. She suspected that John had loved John just as much as she did, and would be the only one who understood her pain, if she could tell him. But she couldn't.

"Here, come over here." He sat back against the sofa, arms held out to her. She stared at him blankly until she saw his face start to fall. She moved closer and leaned back, still tense and silent. John's hand came up to stroke her hair while the other traced patterns on her back. Unwillingly, Molly felt herself start to relax against him. She was almost asleep when his hand brushed against her side, bumping the bandages over the wound there. Molly gasped and flinched away from him. Immediately, John let her go, eyes tight with concern and full of apologies. His face became even more strained than before when he saw the tears that were in her eyes.

"Molly," he whispered. "Molly, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

She nodded and whipped her eyes.

"I shouldn't have…" He sighed in frustration. "Molly, I know it hurts. I've been shot too, remember?"

Her eyes grew wide as she remembered. She hadn't quite thought about the fact that John might understand more than just her emotional pain. She moved closer.

"Where." Her voice was barely a whisper, with no inflection, but still John heard and she saw that he was both surprised and happy that she had chosen to speak.

"Right here," he replied, and his hands were suddenly pulling his shirt up, over his head, leaving his torso bare. He twisted so that Molly could see the scar on his shoulder where the bullet had hit him. She raised her hand and lightly touched the scar, carefully and tenderly. It was then that she got distracted.

John's skin was golden and smooth, warm to the touch. Molly looked in fascination at the muscles that slid and bulged under the skin of his shoulders and arms. She hadn't realized that John was so beautiful. Looking up at his face, she saw that John had noticed her distraction and was staring in a similar way at the features of her face, her shape beneath her clothes, and the closeness of their bodies. He let out a sigh as she let her fingers trail up the back of his neck and Molly could feel his breath on her face. Molly was tempted, so tempted, to just lean forward and meet his lips with hers. She didn't get a chance to decide, however, before John's hands suddenly clasped the sides of her face and pulled her forward.

This kiss wasn't gentle like the last one. It was full of passion, want, and a little bit of danger. It was the kind of kiss that belonged on movies or in books, the kind of kiss that Molly had always dreamed of Sherlock giving her.

_No, don't you dare think about Sherlock right now, Molly Hooper._

Her hands slipped up his arms, across his shoulders and rested around his neck, holding his in place. The kiss deepened and Molly felt him pull her on top of him so that she was sitting in his lap. She gasped slightly at the pain in her side, but didn't tell him to stop. She was here, on her sofa, kissing john Watson.

_John, John, John…_

She could barely think and was quickly losing herself in his touch. His hands smoothed up and down her sides, careful of her injury, then travelled to her back to trace more spirals and circles there. One hand was in her hair, then on her neck, the other on her waist and hip. He was gentle with his hands, unlike hi kisses, and almost cautious. It all felt good, until suddenly one of his hands was up under her shirt, caressing her bare skin.

Suddenly, Molly was back in the alley, remembering the laughter of the men feeling their restraining grips on her arms, tearing her clothing. Her terror was sudden and made her strong. She gasped and pushed off of John, two hands on his chest. She went flying backwards, landing on the carpet on her back. The move had taken effort and she felt the stitches in her wound pull and tear. John was still on the sofa, a look of confusion and shock on his face. When his eyes focused on her on the floor, concern made him frown. He moved to help her up, but Molly couldn't think straight, couldn't see anything but her attacker descending upon her. She flinched away from him again, making him pause.

"Molly," he said slowly, like he was speaking to a skittish animal. "I won't hurt you. I'm just trying to help."

He leaned towards her again, but Molly scrambled back. He let out a sigh of frustration and stood up to take a few steps closer. His hands had closed on her arms when Molly screamed. He froze, still holding on to her, looking shocked. Her struggles were futile as her strength waned. Realizing she wouldn't be able to fight much longer, he prepared to pick her up. Her screams grew wilder and more desperate.

At that moment, the door to the flat burst open, banging against to wall behind it. In the doorway stood a furious looking, tall, thin woman. Her chest was heaving as she took in the scene, which was obviously not what she had expected. Her face went pale at the sight of John. She stomped over to him and, with a move that was obviously some form of martial arts, removed his hands from Molly's arms.

"What do you think you're doing?" Her voice was high and pretty. At the moment, she was indignant too. "Leave her alone!"

John tried to defend himself. "I'm a doctor; I was trying to help her when she started screaming all of a sudden."

"I highly doubt that." Her eyes took in Molly on the floor and the disheveled state of her hair and clothing, and then moved to the shirtless John. He blushed.

"We were…I didn't-"

"I think you should leave." Within moments, the woman had john and his shirt out the door despite his protests. She then returned to Molly and offered her a hand. Molly took it tentatively. The woman pulled her to her feet and let go of her so that she could it down on the sofa. Molly sighed. The woman sat down on the sofa next to her, careful to keep a few feet of distance between them.

Molly turned to look at her. She was pretty, that was for sure, with long blond hair, blue eyes and pale, flawless skin. She was wearing dark slacks; her shirt was covered up by a long trench coat. She looked kind and caring in a very familiar way. Realizing that she was staring, Molly looked down, flushing lightly at her rudeness.

"Thank you." Her voice was quiet and weak, but loud enough for the stranger beside her to hear.

"You're welcome." There was a small pause. "Why isn't there anyone here looking out for you?"

Molly thought for a moment. "There was, but he's gone now."

"Gone? Why?"

"I sent him away."

Another pause.

"Why would you do that?"

"He hurt me. He…broke my heart." Molly heard the woman's breath catch.

"You loved him." It was a statement.

"Yes," Moly whispered. "And he knew it."

"Then why is he gone?"

Molly just shook her head, not wanting to open up to emotional suicide quite so soon in their conversation.

"He loves you."

Molly quickly looked up, seeing the woman's eyes intent upon her face.

"How could you possibly know that?"

The woman stared at Molly for another moment with speculation for a moment before pulling a cloth out of her pocket. She used it to remove all of her make up. Molly started getting a bad feeling. And suspicious. Her suspicions were confirmed when one pale hand reached up and pulled off all the beautiful golden hair that had been cascading down the woman's shoulders revealing short brown curls. Sherlock sat in front of her, having just transformed from a woman into a man, looking very calm. Molly buried her face in a pillow.

"Oh my God, you're so weird. So, so weird." Her voice was muffled but she knew he heard her because she could feel his chuckle through the sofa.

"Molly." His voice was back to normal, thank God. She didn't even know how he learned to sound so thoroughly like a woman. "How is this any stranger than any of my other disguises?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because this one is a woman?" She looked at him incredulously, trying to figure out how he was so okay with being a woman. On the other hand, maybe she didn't want to know.

He smirked as if guessing her thoughts, but then his face became more serious. His eyes were focused on her and Molly found herself getting lost in them.

"Molly," he whispered. And then he leaned in to kiss her.

Within seconds, Molly felt herself melting into him like she couldn't remember doing with anyone else in her entire life.

**Author's Note:**

**Thanks for sticking with the story for so long! Only four more chapters…**

**Please review!**


	12. Chapter 12: Gasping

**Author's Note:**

**This is not smut. Sorry to all my dirty-minded darlings, but I don't write smutty stuff very well. Remember to review and don't hate me for how short this chapter is.**

**Chapter 12: Gasping**

Kissing Sherlock was even better than Molly had hoped it would be.

He was gentle with her, conscious of her injury, but still firm. Molly could tell that this was something that he'd decided he wanted and wasn't backing down. His lips were smooth and soft, persistently seeking out as much of her as they could find. His hands held her face, holding her like she was made out of glass. This kiss was so sweet and so much more than all of the other kisses Molly had experienced. It took her breath away.

She pulled her head back, gasping for air, but Sherlock's lips only moved down to her neck, where he lightly kisses the sensitive skin over her corroded artery. He wasn't letting her catch her breath that easily. His hands had drifted down to her waist, still careful of her injury, tracing patterns on her through the flimsy fabric of her t-shirt. Molly's hands found their way into Sherlock's hair, gripping the dark curls and pinning him to her. She couldn't get enough of him. The way he smelled, the feel of his lips on her skin, and the light touches of his hands were making it hard for her to focus.

"Molly," he murmured against her skin. "I…Molly?"

He had just realized that she was having trouble breathing and tried to look at her face. But Molly's hands tightened in his hair, making him halt with his lips only inches away from her neck.

"Don't you dare," she breathed. "Don't you dare stop."

She felt his chuckle deep in her bones, the sound vibrating to her very soul. But he did as she asked and brought his lips back to her waiting skin. Tentatively, she let her hands roam across his shoulders and down his chest. She could feel the muscles beneath her fingers and the warmth of his skin through is shirt. When her hands reached the hem, she tugged. Catching the hint, Sherlock leaned away for a second to free himself of his shirt. He tried to return to her, but she put a hand on his chest and pushed him back so she could look at him. His skin was pale and flawless, smooth and warm to the touch. His muscles were thin but well defined. Her eyes wandered across his chest and down his stomach, where she could see a hint of ribs, down to his hip bones. He was beautiful, Molly had always known that, but this was something different. This kind of beauty was unearthly and unattainable…and it was being offered to her.

"You're…beautiful." Her eyes met his again to see the happiness in his face, and the thinly veiled desire. He reached for her, hands at her hips, fingers lightly gripping the fabric of her shirt. His eyes searched hers, looking for permission. She nodded slightly, and was struck by the emotion she saw in his face. Like he was amazed she was trusting him this much. She raised her arms over her head and felt the slight shift in fabric as he lifted her shirt, exposing her stomach. His fingers were suddenly there, painting fiery patterns on her skin wherever he touched her. She shuddered with pleasure.

At that moment, the door to her flat opened. Sherlock froze, torn between wanting to stay with her, needing to hide, and murdering whoever had just interrupted. Molly pushed him off the bed, towards the closet, but not before he snuck one more kiss. She smiled against his lips.

'Hello? Molly?" They both froze. That was John's voice.


	13. Chapter 13: Self-Loathing

**Chapter 13: Self-loathing**

Molly roughly pushed Sherlock away from her, in the direction of the closet. He gave her a disgruntled look and slipped inside. Molly looked in the mirror, smoothing her hair and adjusting her clothing.

"Molly?"

"In-in here!" She shouted. What rotten luck for John to show up just as she and Sherlock were getting started. Molly was struck with a sudden thought that made her freeze. John had kissed her. He would probably try again. He probably thought that Molly was his. The thought of having to pretend to like John, while Sherlock hid in her closet listening to the whole thing, was abhorrent. She would have to tell John…what? What could she say to him to make him leave her?

"There you are." His voice came from right behind her, startling Molly. She gasped and whirled around. He was so close to her.

"Sorry to scare you." He smiled shyly. "I just wanted to see you."

He took in her too pale face and wide eyes, registering her emotions. His face morphed, becoming a mask of concern and caution.

"What's wrong?" He tried to meet her gaze, but she looked down, focusing on her bare feet. "Molly. Talk to me."

His hand came up to push her hair behind her ear, and she found herself flinching away from his touch. The unconscious movement surprised Molly as much as it did John, prompting her to look him in the face for the first time. Their expressions were mirrors of shock.

"Molly," he whispered. "What…?"

"I'm sorry." Her voice was a whisper to match his, but it wavered with emotion. Knowing she was about to hurt him, about to make his life even harder than it already was, Molly started to hate herself. She swallowed, the movement forcing back tears that she could feel threatening to explode out of her.

"I can't do this," her voice was barely audible to even herself. "John, I can't, not with you."

The concern fell from his face, leaving him looking guarded. "What do you mean?"

"You kissed me!" Her voice was back to a normal whisper. "But I…"

"You can't what." He had stepped back from her and his voice became flat and angry. All Molly could do was stare at him hopelessly. "You can't…what, care about me? Be around me? What is it?"

He looked so hurt that all Molly could do was shake her head, feeling tears streak down her face disobediently. She didn't want this. She was a horrible person. Suddenly John's face was closer than before, hard and determined. Molly tried to pull away but his hands had trapped her face, bringing her lips down to his. Though she couldn't escape, John's hands on her face were careful not to hurt her. But the kiss was wrong, all wrong, because John wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock, who was hiding in her closet, probably watching the whole thing through the slats in the door.

Molly's hands came up, flattening against John's chest and pushing him away. He staggered back, caught off guard. He didn't say anything though, just stared at her. Molly decided that it was the right time to tell him, to get him to leave forever. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself enough so that she could speak.

"It's him." She looked down as the tears fell faster and thicker. "It always has been, John."

He was silent for so long, just staring at her as she began to shake with her grief at breaking him again, with anger at herself, with hatred for the person she had become to John Watson. At last, the faintest of words escaped him, the five words that Molly had been hoping for and dreading.

"I'll not bother you again." He retreated from her flat, a barely there "Goodbye, Molly" echoing back to her. The silence in the moment after his departure was pure and loaded. Until Molly snapped and released all of her emotions.

She dropped to her knees and screamed. It was the kind of scream that came from torture victims, from a person whose entire world was falling apart, who could no longer handle reality. The scream stopped abruptly, cut off by sobs and Molly folding in on herself. She distantly heard the closet door crashing open and Sherlock flying to her side. His hands lifted her, carried her to bed, without her having to release the tortured position she was in. Her hands went up to cover her face, feeling the tears collect and pool in her palms. She hadn't stopped shaking. The anger and hatred she felt was entirely directed inwards. Molly couldn't control it. Sherlock's hands were on her wrists, trying to pry her hands away from her face so that he could comfort her. But Molly didn't want comfort. She wanted to hurt, the way she had hurt John. She _needed _to feel the pain.

"Molly, Molly, Molly," Sherlock whispered, his own voice sounding pained. "Please. It's not your fault, please."

_Not her fault?_ How was this not her fault? John would never forgive her, Molly would never forgive herself and she didn't deserve to be forgiven. She had helped to destroy the heart of one of the best men she had ever known. Suddenly, the pain wasn't enough. She needed more. She needed to be punished.

She pushed up from the bed, looking wildly around the room. Nothing in here would help her.

"Molly?" Sherlock sounded concerned and she could hear him sliding off the bed. He would try to stop her. She couldn't let him. She sprinted out of the bedroom into the kitchen where she whipped a knife from the counter. She stared at it for a moment.

"Molly!" He was behind her. "Put it down."

She shook her head. There was no way he understood.

"Molly, stop." He was getting closer. Molly spun around to look at him. She could barely focus; her emotions were so all over the place.

"I'm so sorry, so sorry…What have I done?" she choked out. Suddenly her hand flashed down, the knife glinting silver in the artificial light.

"No!" Sherlock's shout was so loud in the small flat, but it was too late.

There was no feeling at first, until there was a line of fire crawling across her palm. The knife fell to the floor, covered in her blood. More blood dripped down her fingers, landing on the tiles and painting the floor with her guilt. In the next second, Molly reverted to pattern and felt the ground rushing towards her face. She let everything go black.

…

"Molly? Can you hear me?" The voice came from above her, deep and concerned. Her eyelids fluttered open to see Sherlock leaning over her where she lay in her bed. "Molly?"

"I'm alright." She pushed up to a sitting position, noting the pain in her hand where she had cut herself.

"How do you feel?"

"I said I'm alright." Her voice sounded wrong even to her own ears. It was too controlled, too flat, too uncaring. Sherlock continued to watch her with concerned eyes.

Molly decided that this was as good a time as any to take mental stock of her emotions. She seemed to have regained control, but that didn't mean that her feelings had changed or gone away. Her self-loathing was there, roiling under the surface, waiting to exact revenge on her for what she had done to John. But she couldn't let Sherlock know. So she wiped her face of all emotion and looked up at him.

"I'm alright."

…

A few days later, Sherlock began to really worry. Molly hadn't spoken, eaten, or functioned normally since her encounter with John. She was distant, especially towards him. He decided to confront her.

"Molly." He had found her at the kitchen table, sitting on a chair, staring into nothing. She did not acknowledge his presence. "Molly."

Her head moved a fraction of an inch in his direction. He took that as a sign to proceed.

"This isn't healthy. You need to eat. And talk to me. Please." She shook her head in denial. "Molly, just talk to me, let me help."

She had gone back to not responding. Sherlock dropped to his knees next to her and touched her cheek.

"Please, say something. Say something so that I know you haven't given up."

She finally looked at him, eyes barely seeing him, face devoid of emotion. She gave him the tiniest of smiles.

"Oh, Sherlock, I have given up."

**Author's Note:**

**I'm feeling the drama, can you tell? Sorry about it taking so long to update, but I've gotten some good news: I've been accepted into art school! I'm super excited, to the point where I haven't been able to focus properly, hence the long wait. **

**P.S. Two more chapters!**


	14. Chapter 14: Feeling

**Chapter 14: Feeling**

Sherlock was supposed to leave three days ago, but he seemed to have no intention of leaving. In fact, he seemed determined to stay and hover over Molly. Normally his worry for her would turn her into a blushing, giddy mess, but now she tried her best not to care. Any feelings, even the littlest sliver of happiness, opened the door to all the others. Feeling meant guilt and pain. She had hurt John, who was gentle and kind to her. As a gentle person herself, the fact that she had caused someone else pain was slowly eating away at her. It wasn't right.

Since she still wasn't cleared to go back to work and having two weeks of vacation thrust upon her, Molly found herself drifting aimlessly around her flat. She vaguely got the sense that she was becoming a ghost, more and more distant every day. But she didn't try to stop it. She could barely remember what she was doing anymore. She found scraps of paper that she had started to write something down n and then abandoned and she would suddenly look around, confused as to how she got from one room to another and how long she had been there.

Sherlock was panicking. He was consistently trying to make her eat, make her read, make her watch television, make her _care_. The irony. Being told to have feelings by Sherlock Holmes, of all people. Once or twice she caught him trying to steal her phone. She didn't want him to call for help for her. She didn't want anyone's help. She started locking her phone, using the most absurd codes to try to keep him out. He usually cracked the code by the end of the day, so she just turned it off and hid it. She wanted to be left alone.

…

A few days later, Sherlock put his foot down.

"Molly, that's enough."

She didn't answer, only continued staring down at her hands where they were folded in her lap. She chanted in her head: _don't feel, don't feel, don't feel…_and tried to block out his voice.

"Molly."

Still no answer.

"_Molly_." He was getting more insistent. "Look at me."

When she didn't, Sherlock strode forward and grabbed her face. Staring into her eyes, he spoke, growling out his words.

"This had to stop. You're killing yourself." She tried to pull her face away, but he held on even tighter. "You can't keep doing this, Molly."

She let herself focus on his face and saw how concerned he was for her. Seeing Sherlock have emotions was still something that surprised Molly. She let her eyes travel over his face, taking in the tightness at the corners of his mouth and the angle of his furrowed brow. He was still beautiful and whole. At least she knew she couldn't hurt him. But then he spoke again.

"Please, Molly." His voice broke when he said her name and her eyes flitted from one eye to the other, seeing the tears that were pooling there. Sherlock was crying.

Molly blinked in shock. Tentatively, she raised a hand and caught the tears that were slowly making their way down his face. They clung to her fingertips like little pieces of Sherlock's soul that were made just for her. She looked up into his eyes as he watched her, and places her whole hand against his face, holding him there. She cleared her throat and tried to think of something to say. Sherlock beat her to it.

"I love you. Please."

Molly blinked at him and took a deep breath. Unexpectedly, a flood of tears burst out of her. She slumped forward and felt Sherlock's arms go around her.

After a few hours of sobbing, Molly tried to speak, but it came out garbled and unintelligible. Sherlock leaned closer to hear.

"What was that?"

Molly pushed up and away from him so she could look into his eyes. This time when she spoke, her voice was strong and clear.

"I love you, too."

…

Over the next week, Molly got back to her usual self. She was happy and gentle. Sherlock smiled and laughed, never straying far from her side. Molly found herself leaning into his touch when he put a hand on her cheek. She discovered that she had unconsciously started to play with the curls at the back of his neck whenever she was thinking, talking, kissing him, or any other time she was close enough to reach out and tangle her fingers in the fine strands. It seemed Sherlock had adopted his own adaptation of her fascination with her hair in that he would play with the ends of her hair. She had once caught him about to place a strand in his mouth and had teased him relentlessly about it. She had never felt safer or happier.

One night after they had climbed into bed, Molly felt Sherlock's fingers in her hair and smiled, rolling over so that they were face to face. She leaned forward and placed the lightest of kisses on his lips, feeling him smile beneath her lips.

"Molly?" His whisper sounded off, something in the tone alerting Molly that there was something on his mind that he wanted to talk about.

"Yes?"

"We should…should we talk about…?"

"What is it?"

He squirmed next to her and Molly realized that this was really bothering him. She propped herself up on an elbow so she could clearly see his face.

"Sherlock?"

"I haven't… I mean, I've never…" He took a deep breath before blurting out: "I'm a virgin."

Molly froze for a second, mentally readjusting. That wasn't what she had been expecting, in fact, it was one of the last things she had ever imagined Sherlock wanting to talk about. Then she giggled and looked on in fascination as Sherlock pale skin flushed a bright crimson. He tried to hide his face in a pillow but Molly leaned down and kissed him again before he could get away. He looked up at her through his eyelashes, still slightly pink.

"It's not funny." He sounded so disgruntled that Molly couldn't help giggling again. He huffed and went to roll over but Molly's voice stopped him

"No, love, I'm not laughing at you. It's just that I didn't expect you to say that. Ever."

He turned back towards her, slightly mollified.

"Sherlock, it's okay that you haven't…done any of that before. And we don't have to if you're not ready. It's enough for me that you're here, with me. I don't need any of that."

"But I'd like to. Not now! But someday, I want to be able to give that to you."

Molly smiled and pulled him closer, hearing the beat of his heart and imagining that she could feel it all the way to her own heart. "We have time."

"We do?" He was looking at her like a child, afraid to be abandoned.

She hesitated for a moment, trying to weigh the risk of exposing herself to Sherlock so much, but reached the conclusion that she no longer cared. "We have forever…if you want it."

He stared at her for a moment before breaking into a breathtaking smile, sweet and gentle and full of promise.

"Forever," he agreed.


End file.
